Transvergence

by Charles Sheffield

  The temptation was alive in Hans Rebka, but only for a split second. A return now would leave Darya and the others waiting on the Erebus, ignorant of what had happened—perhaps making a suicidal rescue bid. He, at least, could not run away.

  "I won't force anyone into more danger," he said. "If the rest of you want to leave through the Builder transport system, go ahead and do it. But I can't. I'm going back to the surface of Genizee. I'll take my chances there."

  The others said nothing, but even before Rebka began to speak, the pheromonal dialogue had begun between Louis Nenda and Atvar H'sial.

  "We could be back home and safe from the Zardalu in less than a day."

  "Yes. That would be desirable. But reflect, Louis Nenda, on our condition should we elect to return to the spiral arm. We would be in no better position than when we arrived on Miranda: penniless, slaveless, and shipless. Whereas if we stay here, and can somehow win a portion of these riches . . . any one of them would make our fortunes. World-Keeper may not be sane, but he makes wonderful gadgets."

  "Hey, I know that, At. I'm not blind." Louis Nenda noticed that J'merlia had moved closer and was listening carefully to the conversation. The Lo'tfian had better command of pheromonal communication than Nenda's augment provided the human. J'merlia would catch every nuance. That couldn't be helped, and anyway it didn't matter. J'merlia's devotion and obedience to his Cecropian dominatrix was total, so nothing would be repeated to Rebka or the others.

  "There's some amazing stuff here," Nenda went on. "It makes the loot on Glister look like Bercian gewgaws. I agree, we may be a long way from getting our hands on any, but we shouldn't give up yet. That means we hafta stick with Rebka."

  "I concur." The pheromones from Atvar H'sial took on a tinge of suspicion. "However, I again detect emotional undercurrents beneath your words. I need your assurance that you are remaining from the soundest and most honorable of commercial motives, and not because of some perverse and animalistic interest in the human female, Darya Lang."

  "Gimme a break, At." Louis Nenda scowled at his Cecropian partner. "After all we been through, you oughta know what I'm like by now."

  "I do know, very well. That is the basis for my concern."

  "Get outa here." Nenda turned to Hans Rebka. "Me an' At have been talkin' about this. We think it would be wrong to run for it, an' leave Julian Graves an' Tally an' Dulcimer an' . . . whoever else"—he glared at Atvar H'sial—"high an' dry, wondering where the hell we got to. So we've decided to stay with you and try our luck back on the surface of Genizee."

  "Great. I need all the help I can get. Then that just leaves Kallik and J'merlia." Rebka glanced at the Hymenopt and the Lo'tfian. "What do you two want to do?"

  They were staring at him as if he were crazy.

  "Naturally, we will go wherever Atvar H'sial and Master Nenda go," Kallik said, in the tone of one addressing a small and rather backward child. "Was there ever any doubt of it?"

  "And so for all of us," said J'merlia, "it is onward—and upward. Literally, in this case. I will ask World-Keeper how and when we may be returned to the surface of Genizee."

  "As close as possible to the seedship," Rebka said.

  "And as far as possible from the Zardalu," added Louis Nenda. "Don't forget that, J'merlia. Rebka and I are gettin' pretty hungry. But we wanna eat dinner, not be it."

  Chapter Seventeen

  J'merlia was convinced that he was dead.

  Again.

  He wanted to be dead. Deader than the previous time.

  Then he had merely been stupid enough to dive into the middle of an amorphous singularity, which no conscious being, organic or inorganic, could possibly survive.

  That produced physical dismemberment: one's body was stretched along its length, and at the same time compressed on all sides, until one became a drawn-out filament of subnuclear particles, and finally a burst of neutrinos and a ray of pure radiation. Long before that, of course, one was dead and unconscious. It was an unpleasant end, certainly, but one well studied and well understood.

  What he had dealt with next had been much worse: mental dismemberment. His mind had been teased apart, delicately separated piece from piece, while all the time he remained conscious and suffering. And then inside his fragmented brain everything that was mentally clear and clean had been taken away from him, dispatched on multiple mysterious and faraway tasks. What was left was a useless husk, devoid of purpose—vague, irresolute, and uncertain.

  And now that poor shattered remnant was being interrogated.

  "Tell me about the human you call Julian Graves—about the Hymenopt known as Kallik—about the Cecropian, Atvar H'sial." The probing came from the Builder construct, Guardian. J'merlia knew his tormentor, but the knowledge did not help. His mind, absent all trace of free will, had to answer.

  "Tell me everything," the questioner went on, "about all the members of your party. I can observe present actions, but I need to know the past before I can make decisions. Tell."

  J'merlia told. Told all. What he had become could not resist or lie.

  But it was not a one-way process; for, as he told, into the vacuum of uncertainty that was now his mind there flowed a backwash of information from Guardian itself. J'merlia was not capable of analyzing or understanding what he received. All he could do was record.

  How many are we? That I cannot say, although I have pondered the question since the time of my first self-awareness. I thought for one million years. And then, more than three million years ago, I sent out my probes on the Great Search; far across the spiral arm and beyond it, seeking. Seeking first to contact, and then to know my brethren.

  I failed. I learned that we are hundreds, certainly, and perhaps thousands. But our locations make full knowledge difficult, and few of us were easy to find. Some lie in the hearts of stars, force-field protected. Others are cocooned deep within planets, awaiting some unknown signal before they will emerge. A handful have moved so far from the spiral arm and from the galaxy itself that all contact has been lost. The most inaccessible dwell, like me, within the dislocations of space-time itself. Perhaps there are others, in places I did not even dream to look.

  I do not know, for I did not complete the Great Search. I abandoned it. Not because all the construct locations could not ultimately be found by extended search; rather, because the search itself was pointless. I learned that my self-appointed task could never achieve its objective.

  I had thought to find like minds, a community of constructs, united in purpose, a brethren in pursuit of the same goal of service to our creators. But what I found was worse than diversity —it was insanity.

  These are beings who share my origin and my internal structure, even my external form. Communication between us should have been simple. Instead I found it impossible. Some were autistic, so withdrawn into their own world of delusion that no response could be elicited, no matter what the stimulus. Many were fixated, convinced past all persuasion of a misguided view as to their own role and the roles of the other constructs.

  Finally, and reluctantly, I was forced to a frightening conclusion. I realized that I, and I alone of all the constructs, had remained sane. I alone understood the true program of my creators, the beings you know as the Builders; and I alone bore this burden, to preserve and protect True-Home for their return and eventual use.

  Or rather, I and one ally would carry out that duty. For by the strangest irony I found one other construct who understands the nature of our true duties—and that construct is physically closest to me, hidden within the same set of singularities. That being, the World-Keeper, guards and prepares the interior of True-Home, just as I guard the exterior.

  When the Great Search was abandoned I realized that the World-Keeper and I would be obliged to carry out the whole program ourselves. There would be no assistance from any other of our fellows.

  And so, two million years ago—we began.

  The two-way flow continued, beyond J'merlia's control, until his min
d had no more information to offer and no more power to absorb. At the end of it came a few moments of peace.

  And then arrived the time of ultimate agony and bewilderment.

  The pain during the fragmenting of J'merlia's mind had seemed unbearable. He realized that it had been nothing only when the awful process of mental coalescence and collapse began.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In a small, guarded chamber far beneath the uncharted surface of Genizee, surrounded by enemies any one of whom was fast enough to catch her if she ran and powerful enough to tear her apart with its smallest pair of tentacles once it had caught her, Darya Lang sat cross-legged on a soft, slimy floor and made her inventory.

  Item A: One Chism Polypheme, too terrified to do more than lie on the ground, moan, and promise complete obedience to the Zardalu if only they would spare his life. Dulcimer, stone-cold and cucumber-green, was a pathetic sight. In that condition and color he would never do anything that required the least trace of courage. And he was getting worse. His master eye was closed and his spiral body was coiling down tighter and tighter.

  Conclusion: Forget about help from Dulcimer.

  Item B: One embodied computer, E.C. Tally. Totally fearless, but also totally logical. Since the only logical thing to do in this situation was to give up, Tally's value was debatable. The only things in his favor were his ability to talk to the Zardalu and the fact that for some reason a few of them held him in a certain respect. But until there was reason to talk to the Zardalu, forget about help from Tally.

  Item C: One Lo'tfian. Darya had known J'merlia for a long time, long enough for his reactions to be predictable—except that here on Genizee his behavior had become totally out of character. Abandoning his usual self-effacing and subservient role, he had become cool and assertive. There was no telling how he would react to any new demand. At the moment he had become inert, legs and eyes tucked in close to the pipestem body. Forget about help from J'merlia.

  Was there anything else? Well, for completeness she ought to add:

  Item D: Darya Lang. Former (how long ago and far away!) research professor on Sentinel Gate. Specialist in Builder constructs. Inexperienced in leadership, in battle, or even in subterfuge.

  Anything more to add about herself?

  Yes. Darya had to admit it. She was scared. She did not want to be in this place. She wanted to be rescued; but the chance that Hans Rebka or anyone else would gallop out of the west and carry her to freedom was too small to compute. If anything was going to be done, Darya and her three companions would have to do it for themselves.

  And it would have to be done soon; for in a little while the Zardalu chiefs would return for her answer to their proposal.

  She levered herself to her feet and walked around the perimeter of the chamber. The walls were smooth, glassy, and impenetrable. So was the domed ceiling. The only exit was guarded by two Zardalu—not the biggest and most senior specimens, but more than a match for her and all her party. Either one could hold the four captives and have a passel of tentacles left over. They were wide-awake, too, and following her every move with those huge blue eyes.

  What right did they have to hold her prisoner and to threaten her? Darya felt the first stirring of anger. She encouraged it. Let it grow, let it feed on her frustration at not knowing where she was, or how long she had before death or defeat was forced upon her. That was something preached by Hans Rebka: Get mad. Anger drives out fear. If you are angry enough, you cannot also be afraid.

  And when all the rules of the game say that you have already lost, do something—anything—that might change the rules.

  She went across to where E.C. Tally was leaning against the wall.

  "You can talk to the Zardalu, can't you?"

  "I can. But not so well, perhaps, as J'merlia."

  "I would rather work through you. I want you to come with me now, and explain something to those two horrors. We have to tell them that Dulcimer is dying."

  "He is?" Tally stared across at the tightly coiled, now silent form of the Chism Polypheme. "I thought that he was merely afraid."

  "That's because you don't have Polyphemes in your data banks." This was no time to teach E.C. Tally the rudiments of deception and lying. "Look at the color of him, so dark and drab. If he doesn't get hard radiation, soon, he'll be dead. If he dies, it will complicate any working relationship we might have with the Zardalu. Can you explain that to them?"

  "Of course."

  "And while you are at it, see if you can get any information on where we are—how deep beneath the surface, what are the ways back up, that sort of thing."

  "Professor Lang, I will do as you ask. But I feel certain that they will not provide such data to me."

  "Do it anyway."

  Darya followed Tally as the embodied computer went across to the two guarding Zardalu. He talked to them for a couple of minutes, gesturing at Dulcimer and then at Darya. At last one of the Zardalu rose on its tentacles and glided swiftly out of the chamber.

  Tally turned back to Darya. "There are sources deeper in the interior, sufficient to provide Dulcimer with any level of radiation needed. They do not want Dulcimer to die, since he has already promised to be a willing slave and assistant to the Zardalu. But it is necessary that senior approval be obtained before radiation can be provided."

  Deeper. It was the wrong direction. "Did you ask them about where we are?"

  "I tried to do so. Without success. These Zardalu are difficult to talk to, because they are afraid."

  "Of us?" Darya felt a moment of hope.

  "Not at all. They know they are superior to us in speed and strength. The guards here fear the wrath of the senior Zardalu. If they make a mistake and fail to carry out their duties properly, that will be punished—"

  "Don't tell me. By death."

  "Precisely." Tally was staring at Darya with a puzzled expression. "Professor Lang, may I speak? Why do you wish me to ask questions of the Zardalu about ways out of here, when such inquiries will surely arouse their suspicions as to your intentions?"

  Darya sighed. The embodied computer might be regarded as a big success back on Miranda, but that was not a world where mayhem and bloodshed ruled. "E.C., if we don't find a way out of here, we have only two alternatives: we make a deal with the Zardalu that sells out humans and every other race in the spiral arm; or we don't make a deal and we are pulled to pieces and fed to the Zardalu infants. Clear enough now?"

  "Of course. However . . ." Tally seemed ready to say more, but he was interrupted by the return of the messenger Zardalu. The other one came to pick up Dulcimer, poked J'merlia awake with the tip of one tentacle, and gestured to Darya and Tally to move on out of the chamber. They descended a broad staircase and moved down another ramp, always penned between the Zardalu. After a few minutes of confusing turns and twists and another four dark tunnels, they emerged into a long, low room filled with equipment.

  The Zardalu holding Dulcimer turned to click and whistle at Tally.

  "It wants to know the setting," the embodied computer said. "It assumes you want Dulcimer in that." He gestured to a massive item that stood close to one wall.

  Darya went across and examined it. It was some kind of reactor, it had to be. The thickness of the shielding suggested that its radiation would be rapidly lethal to humans or most normal organisms. But Dulcimer was far from normal. What level could he tolerate, or even thrive on? She knew what she wanted, a dose big enough to fill him with pep and confidence, the same fearless bravado that he had shown when he flew the Erebus into the middle of the Torvil Anfract. Then, with his active help, the four of them might be able to handle a Zardalu—not two, but one; and that would take some careful arranging, too. Finding the right-sized dose was the first step, but it was going to be a matter of purest guesswork.

  There was a door set into the reactor side, just big enough for a human or a Polypheme to squeeze through. Darya cracked it open. When the Zardalu did not protest or back away she swung it wide
.

  The chamber inside was a kind of buffer zone, with a second closed door at its far end. It was the area where decontamination would take place, after a maintenance engineer, presumably wearing suitably heavy protection, had finished work and emerged from the interior.

  She gestured to the Zardalu. "Put him in there."

  The space was only just big enough for Dulcimer, tightly coiled as he was. Darya squeezed the door shut on the inert Polypheme and felt guilty. If she understood the mechanism, the fail-safe would allow the outer door to be opened only when the inner door was closed. But the inner door could be kept open from outside the whole unit. That meant that until Darya closed the interior door, Dulcimer would not be able to escape even if he wanted to.